


close ain't close enough (until we cross the line)

by writergirl8



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Car Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Supernatural Beacon Hills, Porn with Feelings, This is gross I actually don't want you or anyone else to read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9535199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: (Completely AU)Stiles Stilinski, after going through a bad breakup, decides he's going to take Isaac Lahey's advice for once. And what exactly is that advice? Watching porn.Enter a gorgeous redheaded cam girl who he thinks about way too much considering he's never seen higher than her cupid's bow.And, yeah, this is gonna be a problem.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. Listen. 
> 
> I know this is super gross but I like to send Maggie disgusting shit over text message because it makes her scream and cry, and I wrote this AU last night entirely over text messaging (same way I wrote Whiteboard, if any of you guys can recall that fic!) and we both just fell in love with it. You absolutely DO NOT have to read this if it makes you uncomfortable in any way-- it's one of those things where sometimes you put fanfiction characters in situations that you know would never happen and are insane but you just do it anyways because it's fun. The Everlark fandom does a LOT more of this than we do, but I remember reading a cam girl AU over there once and really loving it, so that's where I got the idea to play with Stydia in that universe. Like I said, I wasn't going to post it, but I just decided to bite the bullet and do it. So, once again, don't read it if you know you're not going to like it. 
> 
> Anyways, I know literally nothing about how being a cam girl works or, like, rules, or payment, or how the videos work, or anything like that. So probably none of this is factual. Enjoy. 
> 
> Title from Into You by Ariana Grande.

Stiles is on the floor.

He has been on the floor since two Saturdays ago, to be specific, because that was when he had gone from 'dude in relationship who is getting it regularly' to 'pathetic dumpee,' his new current occupation. 

This particular floor is Scott's living room floor, and Stiles likes it here because Scott is here too, and he puts beer and chips on the floor for Stiles, who then proceeds to eat them, one at a time, while he moans about She Who Cannot Be Named leaving him.

"It's not even that I'm that upset about her specifically, it's more like… the idea of being dumped fucking sucks. I thought I was just gonna marry her, y'know?"

"But you weren't _that_ into her," reasons Scott.

Stiles glares at him from the floor, then glares at his bottle of Jack Daniels.

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't love love her. You just loved her."

"So?" he says, closing his eyes. "I still can't picture myself with anyone else."

Isaac chooses this exact moment to wander in from the kitchen, wearing nothing but boxers. He frowns down at Stiles, squinting, and then straightens up and says, through a mouthful of cereal: "Why don't you just go watch some porn like a normal person?"

And... okay.

But watching porn kinda throws him right back to middle school, and Stiles hated middle school. After a few embarrassing experiences of adulthood porn that _doesn't_ involve watching it with a partner, he starts looking for other porny venues.

And he's okay with paying some money, he is, because he likes the style of the cam girl shows. Likes the way he can watch a pretty girl touching her body, likes knowing that it's happening live as she touches herself.

But he doesn't picture himself with any of them, maybe because he feels like he'd seriously thought that this was _it_. This was the girl he was going to marry. It's not like he'd ever felt more strongly about anybody else. Stiles loves sex. He just doesn't like _love—_ doesn't engage with it, unless it's Scott or his dad or Melissa or— well, anyways. Stiles doesn't _do_ love.

And then one day he's hanging out at Scott's house, debating whether Emma Stone is hotter as a redhead or a blonde (which, duh, redhead, but Scott's all "BLOND IS HER NATURAL COLOR SHE'S BEAUTIFUL AS IS") and when he goes home, he sees a redheaded cam girl and he just smiles. Clicks on it. Doesn't think anything of it.

And immediately loses his breath as he enters the chatroom.

Her face is out of the screen, but he can see the way her hair curves around her hard nipples. Her bright red nails slide through her pussy, showing him how wet she is (and, oh god, she sounds so good. He's never been this wrecked just from listening to someone's _voice_.)

It is low and raspy and scratches against him, making Stiles gulp. Hard.

For a moment, he just sits there and watches her slide her hand up from her pussy to her nipples, pulling and twisting as her other hand rubs concentric circles around her clit. Then she picks up a toy, letting out a sigh as she slides it into herself after lubing it up, and her hips rock up into it and she turns the vibrations on and her moans increase in pitch and suddenly Stiles finds himself with his eyes closed.

Completely closed.

Just listening to her desperate, breathy voice.

He unbuttons his jeans, pushes them down his hips, and strokes himself, pretending that his hand is warm enough to be the body on the screen in front of him, and that _he's_ making her moan instead of the toy.

His eyes are still closed, senses consumed by her moans, as he comes, cupping his hand around his tip

And, god. He just came thinking about fucking someone else. It's so weird. He doesn't know what to do about it, so he closes out the chat and takes a shower and tries to clear his head.

He's back the next day, the same time, and he tells himself that it's a coincidence, but it isn't. And she's there.

Her nails are the same color, her hair curled this time, and she's wearing a pair of deep blue panties, nearly green, like the sea, and they're dark in the middle. It's the beginning of the show and she's teasing herself and he's so fucking hard, he doesn't know how to deal with how hard he gets and how fast. Stiles tells himself it's not an obsession

It is.

He figures out her hours and is online whenever he can be. After the first time, he doesn't close out the window even after he comes. He stays until she signs off, blowing a kiss to the camera through plump, pretty lips that he desperately wants wrapped around his cock.

He starts to dream her; dream those moans that got him off the first time, made him come faster than he was when he was a teenager. He dreams about her pretty hair sliding down his thighs, her red fingers wrapped around his cock, her puffy lips kissing his chest.

It feels like being hungry and never being able to eat enough to satisfy himself. He jerks himself until he can't anymore, trying to pump her out of his system, but then he thinks about her throaty moans and he can't. He _can't_.

He tries to stop watching. Can't do it. He tries not to get jealous when other men type instructions into the chat, telling her how to fuck herself, what they want, and she concedes. He hates that. Hates that they ask things of her.

Except there's one thing he wants to ask of her, more than anything.

He wants to ask her to use her voice to throatily, desperately moan his name.

He thinks about it all the time. Think about how she would whisper it over and over again, hysterical, half mad, as he swept his tongue over her juicy, dripping pussy, sucking, licking, swirling. How she could smother him in her cunt and he would thank her for stealing his breath just as long as she kept murmuring his name over and over and over again.

Two months in, she's off for a week, and he's missing her so desperately that he winds up searching her page for pictures that she has of herself. She's on twitter too- just shots from the back, her long hair tumbling down almost to her waist, and she seems so _short_ , and mostly she tweets about upcoming shows, but occasionally she retweets things about climate change and the right to choose. It happens rarely, but it makes something inside of him ache for her.

Like, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He's falling for a girl and he doesn't know what her face looks like above her cupid's bow.

And it's while he's trolling her twitter that he notices it— a tweet about private cam shows. They're literally triple the price of her regular ones, and you can do it two ways— you're either messaging her, and she's talking to you, or she can see you through the camera.

He selects the chat option, his hands shaking as the two of them set up a time.

"Hi." Her voice is low, sultry. And it goes straight to his dick, but he kinda hates it.

 _No,_ he types, not sure why he's even doing it. It's just a cam girl. Just a performance, for her.

_Not like that._

Her voice gets higher. A little breathier. It's still purposeful; still very fake. "Like what, sweetheart?"

_**I don't want it like that. I just want you to touch yourself. none of the bullshit.** _

"You don't want me to talk to you?"

And that's it. That's her real voice. He just knows, from the way his heart skips a beat.

_**Yeah. Talk to me.** _

She pauses for a moment. "Okay then," she says.

"What do you want me to say, sweetheart? Do you want me to tell you what I would want you to do to me if you were here?"

_**I want you to tell me what turns you on for real.** _

"You do."

_**What did we say about bullshit?** _

She smirks. "Touche."

_**Touch, indeed.** _

"Wordplay? That's a first."

Her hand inches imperceptibly towards the band on her panties. He catalogues it.

_**What can I say. I'm the highest caliber of pervert.** _

She laughs at that one.

"You're not a pervert."

_**Like hell I'm not.** _

"A pervert doesn't admit that he's a pervert. He thinks this is normal. Do you think this is normal?"

_**Are you trying to get me to psycho-analyze myself so that I run up my time and have to pay more?** _

"That's what turns me on," she says, shrugging. "Didn't you know? Psychoanalysis. Very sexy."

He actually believes her, which is the weird thing.

_**Then show me.** _

She slides her panties carefully down her hips. Opens her legs fully so that he can see the petals of her rosy pink pussy. And Stiles, god help him, just stares, wondering what she tastes like, wondering what she feels like.

They don't talk very much more as she gets herself off for him.

They do the next time though.

And the next time. 

And the next time. 

And. And. And. 

* * *

 

Sometimes she gets off for him, and it's still as amazing as it was the first time. But sometimes they just sit and talk. Stiles makes it his personal mission to make her laugh at least three times a session. Over the next few months, he tells her stories and watches her lips move sometimes as she reads them. He tells her about his job, at first, and then it spirals into stories about dad, and shit he and Scott did in high school, and his stupidest stories about living in an apartment for the first time and bad professors he had in college. She tells him stories too, returning serve, and at first he thinks it's just to keep the clock running but then he starts to think that maybe she enjoys it, from the way she rambles on about a dog she used to have in high school and about her personal vendetta against swedish fish.

He tells her about his ex, why he started looking up cam girls in the first place, and it feels good to get it off his chest. He doesn't think she's judging him, which actually makes him smile because she'd told him once that she was a judgy person.

And then one day they're talking about forensic analysis— seriously, he has no idea how she knows so fucking much about his job, she must be some kind of genius or something— and she's fucking herself with a long, thick vibrating dildo, canting her hips into it, and he can hear her tell, can hear that whine in the back of her throat that means she's about to come— really come; he can tell the difference now.

Before he can stop himself, his fingers are slamming against his computer keys, pounding out the letters.

_**Wait. Don't come yet.** _

She slows down. Her mouth is gasping open, lips bitten from her teeth, and he can't help it.

_**I do want you to say something for me.** _

"What?" she pants, hips moving a bit against the vibrator even though she's stopped thrusting it into herself. "What do you want me to say."

He swallows hard. Types the letters one at a time, taking a long moment; he can see her getting antsier on the screen.

He finishes. Presses send. Waits.

And she doesn't say anything, at first. Just frowns, squinting, leaning forward to read what he'd written. Blinks in confusion for a moment.

"What the hell is a Stiles?"

 _ **My name**_ is all he has to say, before a devious grin stretches across the lips that he wants on his, and she starts thrusting the dildo in and out again.

"Tell me more about how certain types of chemicals can affect crime scene evidence," she says.

He types her a long paragraph, and she reads it as she fucks herself, crying out every once in awhile.

"S...stiles," she says, suddenly. "Stiles. Oh god, Stiles. Stiles, please. Stiles, _please_."

He comes so fucking fast, just as she finally does, after edging herself for so long.

She's still breathless as she slides the dildo out of herself. He can see her cum glowing on it in the well lit room. "Tomorrow," she says, a little breathless. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

_**You don't work tomorrow, so, no.** _

"I'm working tomorrow," she tells him. "And we're using video this time. I want you to tell me everything you just told me, but I want to hear you say it to me. Over and over and over again."

She signs off and he spends the rest of the night dithering back and forth. Makes up his mind when he wakes up after dreaming about her.

Then changes it back, horrified at the idea of actually going through with it.

He comes home from work, instinctively hops in the shower, and that's when he realizes that this is actually happening. He's going to do this.

He sets up the camera so that she can see as much of his face as he can see of hers. Changes his shirt several times, not sure which one would be best, and ultimately decides to wear jeans because he's not gonna touch himself on camera while she can _see_ him. That's crazy.

She turns on the camera option when they're both logged into the chatroom, and the first thing he notices is that her hair looks different today. It's not curled or overly straight It's somewhere in the middle, more like bumpy waves, still beautiful. She's wearing a lacy black bra and matching underwear, and it seems simpler than usual. And her lips are painted bright fucking red, so pretty.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

He can't see her eyes, has no idea what they're doing, but her lips are parted as she stares at his mouth for the first time.

"Um," he starts, and she holds up a hand.

"Shhhh," she murmurs. "Just... shhhh.'

His lips quirk upwards into a smile, and her mouth snaps shut. He watches her swallow.

Suddenly doesn't know what to do.

"You're... young," she says suddenly.

"Uh, yeah."

"I don't know why I assumed you were, but earlier today it occurred to me that you might not be and I... you're young."

"Twenty-five."

Her breath comes out in a rush of air. "Oh."

"Yup."

"Stiles. Twenty-five. Pretty lips."

"I'll make that my twitter bio, thanks."

"Do you have more of those moles, or are they just-?"

She trails off

"Uh, yeah. They're everywhere."

"Oh," she says again.

Then her lips begin to quirk up. "Everywhere?"

"Oh, shut up," he says weakly.

" _Eeee_ vverywhere."

She's still grinning, but he manages to knock the smile off of her mouth with one sentence.

"Will you tell me your name?"

"I will if you tell me your real one."

"What? My name is Stiles.

"That's a fake name."

"Why would I ask you to moan my _fake name_?"

"Lydia."

His heart just... stops beating for a moment.

Lydia.

Lydia.

Lydia.

He replays her name over and over in his head, feeling like he's spinning through some sort of sky that he's never seen before. _Lydia_.

"That's..." Stiles swallows. "Prettiest goddamn name I ever heard."

"You should try saying it," she says mischievously. "It's even _prettier_."

"Okay, here we go," he starts, clearing his throat. "Liii...ck my neck, my back, my pu—"

"STOP!" she shrieks, laughing, throwing her hands up and her head back. He can see her chest arching toward him in that pretty black bra. His stomach swoops at making her laugh like that.

"Shut up. Are we getting off or not? I have homework."

"Homework?"

"Homework."

"Oh god, you're not in high school, are you? I'm going to fucking /kill/ you if you're in high school, do you hear me? Right after I get my dad to arrest me for paying to watch a high schooler—"

"Stiles, I'm a PhD candidate."

He breathes out, relieved. "Thank god." Pauses. "Wait. Fuck. That's _hot_."

"Not the reaction I was expecting."

"Will you tell me the title of your thesis?" he asks, wiggling a little excitedly.

"Will you show me a mole that isn't on your face?"

"I'm gonna take that as a 'no.'"

"Who's the real genius here, in that case?"

"...you're a genius?"

Her mouth slides to the side. " _Maybe_."

"Oh my god, you're killing me, just touch yourself already."

She's still laughing as she slides her hand into her panties, letting out a little gasping sound as her fingers brush against her clit for a moment.

"Oh." She blinks. "Oh god?"

"What?"

Her hand slides deeper down, testing her entrance.

"I'm so..." She stops. He watches her lips purse for a moment, and then she takes a long, deep breath. "You made me so wet," she whispers.

He groans.

She slides her hands back up to her breasts, thumbing over the lacy black cups quickly, until suddenly she's unbuttoning the front clasp and letting the bra slide off her arms. He loves her nipples so much, loves the way they always point so hard, loves the way her nails look as she scrapes lightly against them. He thinks that he could spend forever kneeding them with his tongue, if she gave him the chance.

"I can't, anymore," she gasps out of the blue, sliding her hand back into her panties. She doesn't usually do it like this. Usually she takes them off and spreads her legs wide, letting him see all of her. Today, he watches as her fingers move underneath the lacy black fabric, not see through enough to not be a tease. "T-tell me what you did today. At work."

His voice is so hoarse when he speaks, saying everything in the most clinical, analytical way possible, letting himself use the scientific terms. Her hand speeds up in her panties, faster, faster, faster, and suddenly he's too hard to ignore his aching cock anymore. His hands are squeezed into fists on his thighs, and he's breathing so so so so heavy. He wants to explode.

"L-Lydia... I gotta go. I gotta go jerk off, I'm sorry, I gotta go."

"No," she says, quickly. He blinks at the desperation in her voice. "Please, please let me see your cock, Stiles. Please. I want to see it so badly. Please."

Panic fills him.

"Um?"

"I need it," she says, hand still moving in her panties, so fast, her other hand moving the fabric aside, thrusting in and out of herself. "I lie in bed at night sometimes and I think about it, did you know that? Did I ever tell you that?"

"N-no."

"You talk about your job and make nerdy cultural references and the wordplay and the banter and I just... sometimes, on my days off, I'm so greedy for it because I'm used to being touched, and I think about you. I touch myself and wonder what your cock looks like."

"You tou—?"

"Yes," she moans. "Yes, Stiles. God, yes, please, just let me fucking see you. Please."

He's kicking out of his jeans so fucking fast, letting his boxer-briefs fall to the floor with them, and she gasps, audibly, when she sees him. He doesn't have time to be self-conscious because she's sliding off her panties and snatching up one of her dildos and spreading her lungs, thrusting it inside of herself with a soft wail.

She doesn't need lube. She usually needs lube. He thinks he's gonna die.

But he can hear her, through the microphone, even as he furiously rubs at his dick, watching her. He can hear how the dildo slides through her, how fucking _wet_ she is. Her pussy glistens and then she's lying back on the floor, her knees up, blocking her face, her hair spread all around her as she rails the dildo into herself over and over again, listening to the sound of him jerking himself.

"S-Stiles, you're gonna m-make me... Stiles, god, FUCK, I'm coming, oh god, Stiles, _fuck_."

The sound of her sob makes him come too, grunting a little too loud to not be embarrassed. He chokes it out, feeling almost whoozy as he comes down, her moan replaying over and over again in his head.

Lydia lies there, in silence, breathing in and out, the dildo on the floor next to her, her legs still spread wide, showing him her pussy. He can see her chest moving up and down. Somehow, this is the most naked he thinks she's ever been with him.

"You okay?" he asks softly.

She brings a hand up to cover her eyes.

"Am I _okay_?"

"Yeah," he says simply.

"I've been doing this since senior year of undergrad, and never, not once, did I ever think about showing someone my face. But I want to show you mine because I want to see yours. And if I did that, it would be crossing a line, it would be ruining something, and I don't think... I don't think I could keep doing this job if I did that. I don't know. I just... don't know."

"Lydia," he starts, voice pained, but she shakes her head, sitting up. Pulls a blanket from the corner of the screen and uses it to cover herself.

"I think we should take a break from these for a while," she says, monotone. "I won't charge you for this session. "

And, yeah. That's that.

He stares at the blank screen for a while, not sure what to do.

Stares at her pictures on twitter after that, missing her.

A few weeks after that, she retweets something about forensic science. He punches a hole in the wall and decides to stay off of her twitter, and the cam site, for good

It doesn't take very long for Scott to notice that something is wrong.

Stiles spends too many nights on the couch in his living room, having fallen asleep after pizza and beer. (Okay, pizza and wine coolers, whatever. Shut up.) He wakes up two weeks later after his resolve to not think about Lydia (no this does not help at all. Double shut up.) to see Scott sitting on the couch next to him, staring at him with deep concern.

"What?" Stiles says, mumbling it into the pillow he's assuming Scott had put under his head. "Did I finally grow my mustache?"

From the kitchen, he hears Isaac snort. Loudly.

"Um, Stiles," begins Scott delicately. "I was wondering... if maybe you had been... well.. if you had feelings for... I mean—"

"He wants to know if you were fucking someone and then that person left you," says Isaac, walking in, once again, sans clothes— Stiles wonders if he just likes showing off how much better looking than Stiles he is. Which, yeah. Match point.

That's the kind of guy who ends up with Lydia.

Ugh.

Lydia.

"You just... you weren't in a funk, and then you _were_ again, and I wanted to know if this was about your ex or if maybe... there was someone else and you just hadn't told us?"

"No," Stiles says, feeling muted in a way that is colorless and draining. "I wasn't seeing someone else."

"Are you sure? Because you certainly have been acting like it."

Allison brushes into the room, offering Stiles a plate of chocolate chip pancakes, the chips arranged into a smiley face.

"Oh good," he says, grimacing. "Tweddle-Dee is here too."

"You've spent most nights on this couch," Allison says, perching on the edge and smoothing back Stiles' hair. "In case you haven't noticed, you don't live here."

"Well, neither do you!" he gripes back.

"Right, but I always have a bed," she points out,smiling at Scott.

"And it's your fault that I _never_ do," complains Stiles. "Seriously, do you even remember how to get to your own apartment anymore?"

"She's got a point," Isaac says, sneaking up behind Stiles and stealing a piece of his pancake. "Why don't you just kick me out and move in already?"

"We don't want to live together until after the wedding," Scott reminds them, looking scandalized.

"But back to the point that is actually _relative_ to this conversation," Allison says. "If you haven't been dating, maybe it's time you try again."

"Yeah," agrees Scott. "I've never seen you such a wreck over anyone."

"It's pathetic," Isaac says around a mouthful of pancake.

"Come out with us tonight!" Allison suggests brightly. "It'll be fuuuuun. We can go to that bar you like on 3rd!"

"No."

"Come on," Scott says, poking Stiles excitedly in the arm. "It'll be great!"

"Allison already said that."

"I'll buy you a blowjob shot," teases Allison, leaning down so that her face is very close to Stiles'. "You love blowjobs!"

"Please never say that again when you are this close to me."

"Understood."

"Unless you're offering. To cheer me up, you know."

Scott looks like he's actually considering this for a moment until Allison hits him in the arm.

"Stiles. You're coming with us. It's not an option."

"Are you my legal guardian?" he asks rhetorically. Allison opens her mouth to retort, but Stiles speaks over her before she can say anything. "No. Right answer! So my answer is, also, no. Cool theme, right?"

"Isaac," Scott says, looking over at the other with a pained expression.

Isaac heaves a giant sigh.

"Fine," he says. "Stiles. You should totally come with us. It'll be, like, suuuuuper fun."

"Can he stay home?" asks Stiles, pointing to Isaac.

"No," says Scott. "But I'll keep paying for his drinks until he gets drunk enough to do his choreographed dance to Toxic."

"Sold," Stiles says. "See you guys tonight."

* * *

He's honestly not sure what's tinier— Allison's little black dress, or his chances of having fun tonight.

They crowd into the noisy bar, Scott buys Isaac a shot right away, and Isaac grimaces as he knocks it down and all of them cheer. Cora matches him drink for drink, not because she's trying to get drunk, but because she _can_ , while Malia immediately heads over to the dance floor and gets lost in the bodies that writhe there.

Stiles sit alone at a table and watches Scott and Allison slow dance to fast songs, feeling bitterness seeping in his stomach.

Scott's getting married.

He's getting _left_.

He got left.

God.

Around 10:45, he has decided that he will never have fun again and he wants to leave. He gets up, starting towards the door, and is only moderately surprised when he sees Cora blocking it, narrowing her eyes threateningly at him as she sucks on a pink straw that is placed in an equally pink drink.

When he turns around, Scott and Allison are hovering over his shoulder.

"Come on, guys. I came, I saw, I conquered. Lemme go."

"You can't!' Scott says, a little manically.

And that's what clues him on.

"Oh god."

"What!?"

"Guys, this is a set-up?" Allison widens her eyes innocently. "A set-up? Whatever could you mean, Stilinski?"

"The last girl you set me up with asked the fact that I was bi meant that she could shove a gun up my-"

"Can you not tell me these details about my cousin?" asks Allison, closing her eyes and holding her hand up.

"Can you not _set me up_ with your cousin?"

"It's not her cousin this time!" Scott says enthusiastically.

"It's my college roommate from freshman and sophomore year," Allison says. "We were in the honors college together., remember her?"

"No, I was high out of my mind for, like, ninety percent of that time."

"Plus you never bothered to meet her," adds Scott. "So she probably wouldn't have made much

of an impression regardless."

"Meeting people sucks."

"Well you're about to meet her anyways," Allison says cheerfully. "Kira's picking her up from the airport— she's moving back, just finished her doctorate, actually, and she got a job at Stanford."

"I'm not meeting her," Stiles says, throwing his hands up.

"Too late," Scott replies, spinning him around. A gust of cold wind from the evening has just burst into the bar as the door opens, and inside steps a beaming Kira, her already toothy grin widening when she spots her friends and waves happily. Behind her is a woman with long red hair, half-up in a bun, the edges curled around her breasts. She's wearing a deep purple dress that is tight against her body and incredibly high heels. And despite the fact that he is not seeing them through the camera, Stiles would recognize those lips anywhere.

"Lydia!" calls Allison, waving her over.

She smiles when she sees her friend, a little dully, and that's when Stiles really sees her. All of her.

Her _face_.

She's... oh god, she's so beautiful. She's so beautiful that he doesn't understand how he could have been lucky enough to talk to her at all, to spend any time with her, because... fuck, she's other worldly.

He wants to get on his knees and pledge his eternal allegiance to her. He wants to learn how to paint and then do a portrait of her face. He wants to sculpt a statue of her like that creepy-ass Lionel Richie music video and just, like, run his hands all over it.

He stares at her, a little delirious, as she strides up to Allison and kisses her on the cheek, gives her a tight hug. Stiles stands to the side, waiting to be introduced, but the introduction never comes. Instead, Malia sidles over, a smile on his face that reminds him of an animal going after its prey.

"Let me get you a drink," she suggests, shouting it over the music.

In the corner, Stiles spots Isaac looking thoroughly annoyed.

And, great. Literally all of his hotter, more well-adjusted, less porny friends are trying to sleep with Lydia. He stands absolutely no chance of even getting near her in the first place, much less issuing an apology.

Malia drags Lydia away, and Stiles doesn't listen to any other words, instead just choosing to watch her standing at the bar. He doesn't know why he hadn't thought that her eyes would be that color- for some reason, he had assumed that they would be brown. He loves them like this. He doesn't know what they are.

And the dimples when she smiles are even better when he can see the crinkles around her eyes, the way they light up a little bit.

She's so _short_ , shorter than even Kira, shorter than any of their friends— he can tell because of how high her heels are. Like she's compensating for something. (He thinks she'd find that funny. He casually wants to die.)

Eventually, all of their group is crowded around the table, drinking and laughing and talking, and presumably all trying to get in Lydia's pants. He keeps his head down, sitting a few seats away, and he sees her squinting at him a few times in confusion, but she never says anything.

She probably won't figure it out. She only met him once.

Or, you know. Not at all.

It's loud, and hectic, and there's so many people and so much noise and he gets that she probably wouldn't hear his name if anybody did say it, but he stays out of the conversation anyways, just in case.

Hones his ears in on her voice and just listens. Savors.

"I love this song!" Allison says eventually, and Malia is already halfway out of her chair, always ready to chance, dragging Kira with her. Scott follows them, and then Isaac glances at Cora and she shrugs and follows too, he scampers after her, and that's how Stiles ends up alone at the table with Lydia.

She's still looking at him curiously, but she doesn't seem to be very interested, because she keeps pulling out her phone and glancing from the screen to him, squinting in the dark, dingy lighting of the bar.

He wants to say something to her, but he doesn't know what, so instead he nervously meets her gaze every time she meets his.

"Stiles!" yells Scott, and he swings his head to the side to look at his best friend. "Ask her to dance!"

When he turns back to Lydia, her eyes are wide with recognition.

"Turn to the side again," she instructs, moving the few chairs closer to him." "Uh, what?"

"Now," she says, forming the 'w' so emphatically that Stiles wonders if he's ever again going to be safe from her wrath.

She holds up her phone, and that's when he sees it- a small pencil sketch, glowing on her screen.

It's a hastily scribbled torso.

Shoulders.

A longish neck

And then, the most detail— a carefully drawn chin, high cheekbones, the very very tip of a nose, and thin, but painstakingly detailed lips.

"The mole," says Lydia quietly. "I thought I was crazy, but that mole... that's... your mole."

He swings his head around to face her fully, startled by how close she is, how wide her eyes are.

"Hi, Lydia," he mumbles.

"Hey, Stiles," she replies, voice a little higher than normal.

They stare at each other, eyes darting all over each other's faces. Dancing.

"I didn't want to forget what you looked like," she says quietly. "I... drew you. I didn't want to forget."

"That's okay," he says in return. "I didn't want to forget you either."

"Well." She swallows. "Did you?"

"Ha," he says,then sees how serious her eyes are. "Oh. Um, no. Nope. Yeah, no."

The first thing she touches is his leg. She slides her hand across his thigh, just texting. Stiles freezes, as if he's worried moving will scare her away, and maybe he is.

Then her hands join together on his chest, sliding up until they reach his shoulders. She grips them, hard. Stares at them.

"I missed you," she breathes. "That's stupid,right? Tell me that's stupid."

"If it is then i'm really fucking stupid too."

And then her hand is around the back of his neck while the other one is clenched around his flannel, and her lips— the lips he has spent so much fucking time staring at- are crushed against his.

She tastes like rum and coke and strawberry lip gloss. It is instantly his favorite food. Favorite drink. Favorite color. Favorite song. Favorite animal. Favorite—

"Stop thinking," she says, nudging her nose against his. "Stop thinking right now."

"Clearly you've never met me."

Her lips quirk up.

"I haven't."

"Ugh."

He growls it out, hand on the small of her back as he pulls her closer, kissing her again. And this time, he listens to her. His mind goes blank. He just... kisses her.

By the time he pulls back, she's wrecked, her eyes light and hopeful. "Again," she demands, and Stiles laughs.

"Not here though," he says. "Is that okay?"

She nods.

"Do you have your car?"

"Oh, ah, no. Shit."

"Well, I came with Kira."

"Bathroom?"

"Ew?"

"Really? You don't want to have sex with a complete stranger in the dirty bathroom of a bar? I never would have guessed that."

"What can I say, I'm full of surprises," she says, staring up at him through her eyelashes, and he can't help the way he touches her cheek when he cracks up.

He looks at her for just one more moment before saying, "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission," and snatching up Scott's car keys out of his jacket pocket.

Then he grabs Lydia's hand and the two of them scamper out of the bar, slamming the doors to Scott's car as they get in. Stiles' hands shake when he tries to put the key in the ignition, but Lydia must find it to be endearing because she starts kissing her way up his neck, concentrating on his moles.

They don't drive very far until they pull up to a dark, nearly abandoned street and Stiles kills the engine, hands shaking still because Lydia's been palming him over his jeans for the last three minutes, apparently too eager to wait.

They scurry into the backseat, a tangle of limbs and heavy breaths, and he has to laugh because it's sort of like a one night stand but also not but also he just met her but also he didn't, and he has no idea what's going on now or what will go on tomorrow but all he knows is that he's pretty sure he might be in love with a girl who really, for all intents and purposes, should be in the back of this car with Isaac right now, not him.

She sits in his lap and they kiss and kiss and kiss, faster first, then so slow, like they just want to savor each other's lips. They don't speed up again until Lydia starts rubbing herself over him repeatedly, her breath catching in her throat, and that's when he realizes that this is actually happening; for real, the same girl who he dreamed about for months and months is currently humping him like he's her favorite pillow.

"Stiles," she whispers, tugging his earlobe into her mouth and tugging on it, "I need you to fuck me. _Now_."

He shivers. It's slightly humiliating and slightly incredible because holy shit he just found a girl who makes him _shiver_.

"No," he says. She stops rubbing herself on him. "No way."

"Did I misre-?"

"I literally spent months staring at your cunt, wondering how it tastes... you have to let me eat you out first. Please."

She sucks her lower lip into her mouth and nods at him, the trust in her eyes making something like relief break out inside of him

Lydia scoots back against the door of the car, spreading her legs, and this time, it's /Stiles/ who gets to take her panties off of her. (They're a pair he's seen before. that makes him grin, just a little bit. He's actually still grinning when he ducks his head under her dress and nudges his face as deep inside of her as it will go, not bothering to preface.)

He's watched her masturbating enough times to know what kind of movements she likes- she likes patterns, rhythm, hard, fast. He eats her out desperately, sort of wishing he could talk to her at the same time. Tell her how good she tastes, how much he thought about this, how much he likes the noise she makes the first time his nose accidentally nudges against her clit. After that she starts to ride his face, and he brings her off quickly, her cries even louder than they were on the webcam.

She's well on her way to a second orgasm by the time she's cupping his chin, dragging him up to her. "I want to come again with you inside me," she whispers, tugging on his hair.

"Yes please," he says, as though she'd just asked him if he wanted chocolate milk with his dinner.

She pushes him back against the opposite door of the car, tugs his jeans down, and sits on his cock, rolling her hips in circle after circle, moaning, her hand braced on the roof of the car as she rocks over him.

It takes his brain a moment to catch up to the fact that he's actually inside of her; that this is real.

"This," she pants, rolling her hips. "Is this... what you... imagined?"

"No." He shakes his head, laving at a nipple over her dress, just wanting to suck on her tits.

"Warmer. Hotter. Overall, generally better."

She lets her hand slide from the ceiling to the window, and starts rutting her hips more emphatically over his, over and over and over again, fast now. He grips her hips and tries to distract himself from the way her tits bounce in his face.

"I don't think I want anything about this to be 'general,'" she says, by way of explanation, a wicked grin at her lips. "So here's what I'm going to do, Stiles."

"Y-yeah?"

"I'm going to tell you that I know you like star wars, and that you're allergic to bee stings, and that you helped Scott pick out Allison's engagement ring. And I'm going to tell you that Allison usually referring to you as 'Stilinski' in a very exasperated tone doesn't change that I'm going to come again, all over your cock, and then i'm going to choke myself on your dick and lick up all of myself off of it, get you all clean so that we can do it all over again."

He groans, knocking his head back against the car door, thinking that he'd probably destroy the world if it meant that exact scenario could happen.

"And... and tomorrow?" he asks, staring up at her, unable to keep the hope out of his eyes.

"Tomorrow you're taking me out on a date," Lydia says, gasping as Stiles reaches up to touch her clit. "A-and... and after that date, we're going to go on another one. And another one. And there's going to be absolutely no Skype sex because I am going to drive over and see you whenever I miss talking to you the way I did these past few months. Understood?"

"Y-yeah. Understood."

"Good." She leans down. Kisses him again, sweeping and long, and then leans forward and whispers in the low, sultry voice that he fell in love with: "Come on, Stiles. Come for me. Because I think I love you too."

**Author's Note:**

> Nobody ever speak of this ever again.


End file.
